Change Your Look
by Orokiah
Summary: Rush decides Change Your Look Day was a good idea the second Chloe shows up at his door, wearing someone else's red dress.


**Title:** Change Your Look

**Disclaimer:** _Stargate Universe _and all characters are the property of MGM.

**Character Focus:** Chloe/Rush, implied TJ/Young

**Summary:** Rush decides Change Your Look Day was a good idea the second Chloe shows up at his door, wearing someone else's red dress.

**Context:** Post Incursion, Part Two. Some minor spoilers and speculation for season two.

* * *

Rush decides Change Your Look Day was a good idea the second Chloe shows up at his door, wearing someone else's red dress, along with the calf-hugging boots she had on the day she arrived at Icarus Base.

rove morale, lately. It's mostly at Lieutenant Scott's behest, since he's now de facto leader, with Young off nursing grief and the pain of his injured pride, now Telford is finally on the ship and ostensibly in charge. But he's in no condition to take advantage; for the moment, too torn apart by everything he did under the Goa'uld brainwashing that left him a puppet at the mercy of the Lucian Alliance. Since the group of Alliance thugs who came with him on his one-way trip to _Destiny_ are about as happy to be there as everyone else is to have them, it makes for a decidedly miserable bunch.

Talent Night was one of Scott's most successful, if least inventive, ideas. No one was foolish enough to ask Rush to take part – he'd timed a crisis to coincide, just in case – but he's heard plenty about it, mostly centring on Riley's star turn: an uncanny impression of either him or General O'Neill, depending on who's telling the tale, and whether they know he's in earshot. Invent Your Own Mutant Crop was a favourite among the scientists, and Inman is hard at work wasting precious resources, turning the winning entry into reality. The drinking and karaoke contests were supposed to be separate, but ended up melding into a mutant crop all of their own, leaving behind a ship of sore heads, and even sorer ears.

The most popular morale-booster by far, however, seems to be today's little exercise.

There is no magic wardrobe aboard _Destiny_. Everyone wears exactly what they were wearing when they first set foot on board. The only people who have changes of clothes are those who had or grabbed a bag on their way to the gate. It's hardly a surprise, then, that the crew has embraced the idea with such abandon, turning the mess hall into a shopping mall in the process. They borrow other people's clothes with the same casual ease as they borrow their bodies.

The real surprise has been how used they've become to seeing each other a certain way. People have been doing double takes all day, completely failing to recognise those they've spent the last nine months of their lives working right next to. Even Rush, who cares little for appearances and possesses a keener eye than most, found it hard at first to tell the difference between Brody and Volker – whose idea of a fresh new look turned out to be swapping clothes with each other.

Uncharacteristic behaviour is spreading like a rash. He's checked the air filters twice, just in case a toxic chemical is causing it.

"I've been sent to chastise you," Chloe announces the instant the door slides apart.

Rush raises an eyebrow – more as a result of the scarlet fabric that's clinging to her curves than the words. It's no secret that their shared experience at the hands of the aliens has given them something of a bond; while it would be a stretch to call them friends, Rush has more time and patience for Chloe than anyone else on board. When Scott wants to raise something contentious, he rarely bothers to do it himself: he sends his girlfriend instead. Rush is more impressed by the young lieutenant's ability to delegate than contemptuous of his unseemly lack of spine.

She wags a finger at him. "For not setting a good example to the rest of the crew."

Rush looks down at himself. Chloe's eyes follow his.

"Just sticking your jacket on over what you normally wear," she chides, "_doesn't_ count."

"I'll have you know this was a very expensive jacket."

"It's very nice," Chloe agrees, with the taste and good judgement expected of someone used to the best that money can buy. "You should wear it more often."

"So should you," says Rush, the words slipping carelessly from his lips.

"Your jacket?"

"That dress."

Two spots of colour, almost the same shade of pink as her normal attire, flower on Chloe's cheeks. Rush can't tell if she's pleased by the compliment or embarrassed by it. Either way, it's almost as becoming as the really rather attractive – gallant concerns about structural integrity aside – red dress.

"Uh, it was, um, Doctor Palmer's," she explains. "We found it in her luggage. It feels sort of wrong to be wearing her clothes, but..."

"Waste not, want not," Rush says easily.

"Well," Chloe says, recovering her poise, "exactly." She twists her hands together awkwardly. "I was going to give it to TJ, but...well, you know."

"Attempting to boost morale," Rush tells her, reciting the same speech he gave to Scott, when he finally dared to poke his head around the control room door and seek advice, "in no way diminishes Lieutenant Johansen's loss. Or Colonel Young's. As a matter of fact, I spoke to the Colonel this morning. He's fully supportive of any and all attempts to help the crew overcome the shock of recent events."

"You did? I mean – he is?"

"He's delighted that everyone is having fun."

"Apart from you, apparently," Chloe says.

Rush nods at the inside of his quarters, where his iPod is playing softly, something old enough to be classic and new enough to be contemporary emerging from the speakers. "I'm reading over some notes with a soundtrack I selected especially for the occasion. What could be more fun than that?"

Chloe looks down at the dress she's wearing. There's an endearingly girlish hint of glee on her face, at having something new to wear; a glint of mischief in her big blue eyes.

"Why would Doctor Palmer have packed a dress like this for a science mission?"

"For a formal dinner at the base, perhaps?"

"Or perhaps," Chloe demurs, lifting her eyes back to his, "she was hoping someone would ask her to dance."

* * *

Tomorrow, he'll blame Brody; accuse him of making his moonshine so potent that the sip he had earlier, a respectful toast with his team to Johansen and Young, and what they're enduring while everyone else is doing their best to forget, was enough to make him completely lose his senses.

Tonight, he's holding a lovely young woman in his arms; and even if it's at a respectful distance, even if he's just standing there while she sways against him, it's still just the two of them, alone in the spacelight, and every sense he has is helpless to do anything but enjoy it.

"Today was a really good idea," Chloe tells him.

"Whose was it?"

"Eli's, I think. He's so tired of wearing that t-shirt – he'd join the Lucian Alliance in a heartbeat if they had a spare leather singlet."

"How are our new shipmates? Still sulking en masse in the gate room?"

"They're lucky they're not rotting away in the brig."

"Right now," Rush observes, "that's down to your boyfriend."

"Well, not _exactly_ right now." Chloe grins at him. "Since he's out of uniform."

Rush pushes aside a mental image of Scott, strutting around in the Hawaiian shirt and shorts they salvaged from another dead person's baggage, and concentrates on Chloe. Her dark hair tumbles in loose curls around her bare shoulders, her eyes half-closed as she rests her head against his shoulder and hums to herself. Her skin is soft and supple beneath his hand, her neck a neat, perfect line. It makes him unspeakably sad for a second to look at her, a blossoming rose, doomed to wither in darkness between these metal walls.

The song ends, but Chloe doesn't step away. Rush finds himself making no attempt to let her go. People cling to each other in circumstances such as theirs: Chloe and Scott being just one example, longer-lived than most of the rest. Though he'd never admit it, there are times he envies those who can find comfort so easily, who have no well of grief or reserve – or, to be frank, good taste – to hinder them. Despite inauspicious beginnings, experience has bound him closer to Chloe than anyone else on the ship. Physical closeness seems easy now, and normal. If he were given to hyperbole, he might even term it inevitable.

"Your jacket smells burnt," Chloe says, lifting her head and wrinkling her nose.

"Probably from the evacuation. It was the last thing I put in my bag."

"You packed a jacket but not another t-shirt?"

"An extremely _expensive_ jacket..." He peers downwards, at the sturdy black toes peeping incongruously out from under the flounce of her dress. "I assume those are carrying war wounds too?"

Chloe follows his gaze. "Oh, no – they're okay. I just don't get chance to wear them that much. Not that practical for exploring planets – or wandering around dusty old spaceships."

She smiles ruefully, and he notices for the first time that her lips are stained a similar shade of red to the dress. Next to food and medicinals, cosmetics are the most popular use for the many plants and flowers brought back through the stargate. He's suddenly very glad that the crew has proved so resourceful.

"Lucky I wasn't wearing them when the aliens came. I'd never have gotten them back." Her eyes flicker to his left arm, and the unseen hand at the end of it; as mindful as he is of the ring their captors took from him. It was the least of his concerns at the time, and after, but still he feels the weight of its absence.

"They suit you," he says, customary honesty laced with the reckless abandon of the day. She meets his gaze evenly, looking at him as if she's seeing him for the first time. There is more in her eyes than there should be; more of what, Rush is not yet sure. The aliens were thorough in their work, whether they realised it or not. They have yet to truly assimilate whatever it was that was done to them. It's only when he looks at Chloe that he can even begin to grasp the magnitude of the change.

They have bridged the distance between them without him realising, decision made on a level beneath conscious thought. Her body radiates heat against his, his hands encircling her tightly, dipped to the small of her back as if they'd always meant to end up there. It's a day for seeing people differently, and he feels his breath hitch in his throat as he realises – at the exact same moment Chloe does, judging by the little tremor that runs through her – that they are suddenly seeing each other in a very different guise indeed.

Tomorrow, he'll think of all the things he should have said or done instead. Tonight, drunk on Brody's moonshine, or the heady air of the day, or something else altogether, he puts aside his thoughts and does exactly what he shouldn't: what there are a hundred and one fairly compelling reasons not to.

He kisses her tentatively, softly, but she grips the lapels of his jacket and pulls him closer, kissing him back with a fierce kind of fervour that chases away every semblance of restraint. She makes a low noise against his tongue as he runs a hand up her side, fingers tangling in her hair. She breathes his name into his mouth, the first time she's ever said it, and the knowledge alone is enough to fill his veins with fire.

They leave a trail of clothes, new and old alike, all the way to the bed; and as much as Rush likes the ill-fated Doctor Palmer's red dress – he finds he likes removing it a great deal more.

* * *

They make love slowly, blanketed by shadows, exploring each other's bodies like the alien landscapes they are. Her fingers traverse his spine, tracing the galaxy of bruises left behind by Young's brutal treatment of Telford, the ridge of the scar that's the only visible reminder of a horror that still haunts both their dreams. He finds the site of the bullet hole in her thigh, tender to the touch even now, making her stiffen, breath quickening to a sigh as he replaces his fingers with his lips.

Afterwards, Rush just watches her, face bathed ghostly blue in the glow of FTL, a colour that night tempts even him to mistakenly attribute to moonlight. Chloe rolls onto her stomach, pillowing one cheek on the crook of an arm, and smiles across at him.

There are things he ought to say. That this is not something he makes a habit of; that it can never, _ever_ happen again; that part of him would very much like it to, even if drawing the ire of yet another leader, all the people who assume he's a heartless ogre and she a helpless little girl – which to some extent includes Eli and, thanks to the stones, probably her mother too – would be far from the finest idea he's ever had. He can't afford distractions from his work; doesn't want a relationship of any description or duration, even if he's starting to suspect he might need one. A bodyguard too, should it occur to Scott to wonder what Chloe's been doing all this time, and not have the courtesy to knock.

But none of it needs words to express. It's already passed between them, unspoken.

Rush reaches out and carefully traces the curve of her chin. "That's going to leave a mark," he says.

Chloe smirks at him. "Maybe you should think about shaving, then."

"The next time someone asks me to choose between an airlock and changing how I look," Rush assures her, "I'll be sure to consider it."

"And you could make a pretty good wig out of all that hair..."

He props his head on an elbow, getting a better view of the messy sprawl of hers, the valley of her back beneath it.

She threads her fingers through his, looking thoughtful. "A change of luck – the other kind, I mean. We've got to be due that, haven't we? After everything that's happened lately?"

"Everything is cyclical..."

"Is that a long-winded way of saying yes?"

"It's a long-winded way of saying I sincerely hope so."

Chloe glances over at the dress, shed like a skin, lying in a crumpled heap on the floor. "You know, I was originally going to swap clothes with Camile..."

"But she settled for your earrings," Rush says. "Since Lieutenant James had borrowed the necklace, and Doctor Park had already reserved the use of your coat."

She shifts up to her side and slips a leg between his, a teasing smile on her lips. "You noticed all that? And there I was thinking the brilliant Doctor Rush remained aloof to everything not on his superior plane of existence...that he thought the whole idea was...what was it? A 'frivolous waste of time and effort'?"

His fingers skim the grooves of her ribs, moving methodically upwards. "I changed my mind."

"Boosting morale," Chloe says a little breathlessly, quoting his own words back at him, "boosts productivity."

He presses her back against the mattress, nipping his approval at her neck. "Quite so."

She looks up at him, face suddenly serious. "No one deserves to be sad forever, Nicholas."

"Yes," he says quietly. "I know."

"Do you? Really?"

He closes his eyes for a second, feeling her heart beat against him. It should be impossible to feel so lonely, this close to someone. Young and Johansen have each other, and he envies them that, if nothing else. His is a burden he will forever have to carry alone. No one can ever understand, least of all Chloe, and yet – and yet. There are glimmers of it, in the too-old depths of her eyes, the tone of her voice, the way it's so easy to be with her, like this, when unfamiliarity should make it nothing more than awkward.

"I'm starting to," he amends, and brings his mouth down on hers, silencing whatever dangerous things the moment might have led them both to say.

* * *

It's the talk of the ship for weeks on end. Eli proudly displays his snaps – deleting whatever blackmail material he has on Greer only after some less-than veiled threats of violence – and even holds viewing parties of footage the kinos captured, preserving their altered appearances like flies in amber. He insists on showing Rush a video of Chloe, twirling for the camera in her borrowed finery, gushing about how incredible she looked. Rush mutters suitably vague noises of accord, paying more attention to the red-headed Lucian Alliance member who's standing to their left, scowling at Eli, and glaring jealously at the screen.

People back on Earth would think them mad, the fuss that is made of an everyday occurrence that everyone else takes for granted. But the little things make all the difference, when there is nothing else to cling to.

Nothing changes, not really: and yet there are subtle signs all around that something has shifted. Rush has a stern word with Brody about his moonshine; he glances over at Park, blushes a deep shade of scarlet, and swears to the Ancients, star-building aliens and the universe at large that he's never, _ever_ going to make it that strong again. Eli makes his clothes swap stick, exchanging his t-shirt on three hotly disputed days of the week for one that makes him look older, more serious than before. Scott stops sending Chloe to speak to Rush, and starts doing that, and everything else for that matter, all on his own.

He doesn't question the change; would no more suspect himself of being the cause than anyone else does. He's polite and professional whenever they meet, even if it's somewhat warmer than before, and his eyes always seem to end up lingering on hers, just that bit too long. He can never see her face now without remembering the flush of her cheeks, the gasp of her breath, the way his name sounds in the dark, coaxed from her lips. Memory is a traitorous thing. Once you've looked at someone in another light, it's nigh-on impossible to turn it out again.

Telford comes out of his self-imposed isolation, and even Young and Johansen slowly begin to heal, though there are shadows in TJ's eyes that never quite go away, and the Colonel's voice echoes with an emptiness that only the passage of time can hope to fill. Scott relinquishes command with a conspicuous sense of relief, but he's too pleased with the success of his morale-boosting plans to abandon them completely.

He holds a meeting in the mess one morning to decide what to do next. Everyone who's able to attends, even Rush, who is as keen to know what he'll need to spend weeks avoiding as the rest are to discover what's next on the Ancient-turned-cruise-ship agenda. The air is thick with excitement, the room buzzing with the thrill of something to anticipate that isn't one life-threatening crisis after another.

"Alright, settle down," Scott says, raising a hand and calling the gathering to order. He clears his throat and looks down at the sheet of paper he's holding. "Right. Okay. We've had a few suggestions already. Uh...apparently we're running short on books. Not sure what we're supposed to do about that..."

"Write one?" Rush says acidly.

"Yeah, that's true. Hey, that's a great idea. Anyone want to try writing something new? A chapter each? Sort of a group effort?"

He looks around, seeing the idea go down like a lead balloon. "No? Okay then...how about a play? Lots of you seem to like putting on a show, if the other week was anything to go by..."

"How are we going to put on a play without a script?" Volker demands.

"Improv?" suggests Eli.

"Use the stones," James says. "Memorise an act each or something."

There is a murmur of agreement, heads nodding all around. Scott ticks something off and moves on to the next item on his list.

"This was a suggestion from Colonel Young," he says, glancing over to his right. Rush looks over and sees Young sitting in the corner next to TJ, clasping her hand discreetly. "A chess tournament."

"We don't _have_ a chess set," moans Volker, apparently having set himself up as the voice of dissent.

"Doctor Rush does," Young says. He exchanges a glance with Rush. It's still a challenge, but a weary one. For now at least, some of the fire has gone out of it.

"It's not finished yet," Rush says cautiously, folding his arms. He glimpses Chloe for the first time; sitting at the table opposite, next to Eli, half-hidden by Greer's imposing head.

"But it will be," says Young.

"Sooner or later," he allows, since it's not really important enough to quarrel over with someone, even someone like Young, especially when he looks so beaten, and broken. He'd never think to compare his grief with anyone else's; granting them the space and privacy he values so highly. It's a thorny path that everyone has to tread for themselves. Every loss is different, especially one as horrific as the _Destiny_'s most recent. But seeing the results, sharply defined before him – TJ's ashen face, the agony etched in stark lines on Young's – makes him realise, for the very first time, just how far he's come.

"We've got time," says Scott, with an amiable shrug. He runs a finger down the list. "Other suggestions for ship-wide contests: dominoes, checkers, star chart Monopoly..."

"Kino soccer," Greer demands. Eli groans in despair.

"We have to _make_ most of this stuff," Volker points out. "It's not like the Ancients left us a well-stocked games cupboard."

Muttering and muffled agreement fills the room. Rush looks down at his notebook, and the long list of things he has to do that are far more important than this, thinking with regret of all the ways his time could have been better spent.

"I've got an idea," Chloe announces.

Rush looks up, and realises she's suddenly sitting right next to him, having crept there with the stealth of a cat, in a rare species of moment where he wasn't paying attention.

She glances at him, her eyes sparkling, and turns to address the room. "Costume Party Day."

A roar of approval goes up from every quarter, drowning a scattering of protest. Rush opens his mouth to make an early excuse, but snaps it shut when he sees Chloe looking back at him, her gaze weighted and intent. He notes absently that the air feels a little thin, filing away the need to recheck the filters.

He's about to throw caution to the wind and ask if this means what he thinks it does, express in no uncertain terms how deeply opposed he is to the merest suggestion, when Eli saunters over to join them.

"Of course, you'll be far too busy to attend, Doctor Rush," Chloe says, as Scott drones on the background, finalising dates and times.

"Yes," he says, eyes not moving from hers. "Far too busy."

"Nah," Eli says with a snort, "he'll be hiding out in his room all day pretending he's got better things to do." He gulps like a fish as Rush looks up at him and frowns. "Did I say that out loud? Really?"

"No one would dare disturb you," Chloe promises.

"We're all way too scared of you," adds Eli. He slaps a hand against his forehead. "What the frak is _wrong _with me today..?"

Rush closes his notebook and stands. Chloe follows his lead, the meeting seeming to have broken up for the time being. The crew is drifting off in groups, spirits high, chatting excitedly.

"Well," he says. "Thank you for the invitation, Miss Armstrong. As you surmised, I do indeed have plans of my own for the date in question."

"And you can't possibly change them."

"I'm afraid I'm quite irreversibly attached to the arrangement."

She fights back a smile. He suppresses the urge to return it. Eli glances between them, squinting, as if he's getting an inkling of something he can't seem to put his finger on.

"I will, of course, be more than happy to help with preparations for the...fun."

"You sew?" Eli asks blankly.

"No," Rush says. "But I'm quite adept at offering suggestions." He turns back to Chloe. "Feel free to stop by the control interface room. Any time."

She nods agreeably. Rush walks away, catching the tail end of the conversation as he does.

"Suggestions?" Eli says.

"For my – uh, our – costumes."

"We got blue pigment from those berries! You could paint yourself and go as Illyria! That'd be, like, _so _cool..."

"Blue's really not my colour," Chloe reminds him.

Rush allows himself a smile as he leaves the mess hall, much to the surprise of a passing Sergeant Riley. It takes every bit of effort he can muster to concentrate on his work for the rest of the day, constantly interrupted by Brody and Park, huddled together making hesitant plans, and pleasant, runaway thoughts of his own. It brings him in sync with the rest of the crew: finally attempting to move forward, instead of always looking back. A modicum of efficiency is a small price to pay for the benefits changing your outlook can bring.

Everyone needs something to look forward to, after all. Even, as it turns out – him.

END


End file.
